Peas, Petals, and Pieces of Me
Built of Many Parts — Like a Composite Flower
I didn’t expect this hike to feel like a mirror.
I just needed to get out of my head—and into the trees.
Antoine Peak was busy—it was Memorial Day, after all. Bikers, hikers, dogs, and kids with sticks.
But even in the middle of all that human noise, the land found ways to speak to me.
I found space to drop back into myself.
Or maybe more accurately—to get out of myself.
I found it in the tiny, complicated architecture of things people were walking right past.
It started almost immediately, when I came across another orchid.
I wasn’t even really looking yet—just starting the trail and getting my bearings—when there it was:
delicate, alien-looking, weird, and stunning.
A little Western Fairy Slipper (Calypso bulbosa var. occidentalis), again!
I’m totally obsessed at this point.
These sneaky little guys are like strange, exquisite gifts.
They don’t care about human timing—they show up when they feel like it, and only where the conditions are just how they like them.
It felt like the forest was whispering welcome back—reminding me that if I pay attention, it still has things to teach me.
As Murphy and I kept going, I spotted a bright yellow glow just off the trail.
These adorable little “sunflowers” are more than they seem.
Arnica, like many plants in the Asteraceae family, is what’s called a composite flower.
At first glance, it looks like one single bloom—but it’s not.
That center is actually a dense cluster of disk florets, each one its own tiny flower.
And those cheerful “petals” around the edge? They’re ray florets—also tiny flowers, just in disguise, all working together to make it look like one big bloom. And kneeling in the pine duff, looking at this “simple yellow flower,” I couldn’t help but feel a kin to it.
I’m more than meets the eye, too.
I’m made of different parts—grief, joy, memory, curiosity—all working together to add up to something whole.
Whether it looks tidy or not.
On the way out, I had to stop and rest (thank you, POTS), and that’s when I saw them—adorable little pinkish-purple petals smiling up at me and bringing an even bigger smile to my face.
There’s something about peas.
The way they vine. The softness of their faces, like little floral expressions.
Those joyous little springs of their tendrils, always curling toward something.
Not everything needs to be profound.
Some magic is soft and playful—making you feel a little lighter just for having noticed.
So yeah, I went hiking on Memorial Day…
and somehow walked away remembering that I’m allowed to be a little weird, complicated, and playful all at once.
Turns out, I’m not just one thing either.
With ink on my fingers and wildflowers on my mind,
